7: Rolling Thunder
by stress
Summary: He was just your average horse until the day a mysterious Cowboy liberated him. The horse from 'Santa Fe'... Here's his story.


Author's Note: _This is just a little parody-type story that I wrote (within a half an hour last night, woot!) in commermoration of Max Casella's (Racetrack to all you unenlightened folk) 35th birthday. I figure a story about Race would take too long, considering how long my stories end up. So, I wrote about the next best thing; read and you'll see._

Disclaimer: _I don't own any characters from Disney's 1992 musical, _Newsies_. Any other characters are mine – including the horse ones ;)_

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"_...And the winner of the race tonight, for the sixth night running, is - #7: Rolling Thunder!_"

Hi, there. That's me. Rolling Thunder, that is. And yes, before you get all confused, I am a horse. A racing horse, and pretty darn good one, too. You heard the announcer. I've been the winner of the third race ran every night for the past six gambling days. And I've only been a runner here at Sheepshead Races for a week or so now. Not bad for an average pull cart horse, eh?

You wanna hear my story? You wanna know how I, an average everyday steed called Henry, became the world-famous - OK, I ain't that famous yet, but I will be - racing horse, #7: Rolling Thunder? Well, just because you caught me here in the winner's circle, I think I'll tell you.

I was born a healthy, young colt down in a town called Santa Fe in the little known state of New Mexico. Oh, you've heard of it? It's a nice place. In fact, it was my dream to go back there. You see, just when I was strong enough to walk around on my own four feet, I was sold to a small- time traveling rodeo. They were just starting out so they needed strong, young, fresh colts to help them out. Was I ever excited at first. Me, a rodeo horse?

But it wasn't meant to be. They dubbed me Henry, their faithful carriage puller. That's right - I pulled the carriage. With that carriage attached to my harness and my harness attached to my head, we were off. We traveled all over, never staying anywhere for too long. My owners, a family of about seven cowboys and cowgirls, decided to head to an area where rodeos were rare. Off we went to New York, the city of opportunity.

We had just arrived when we realized that the city was not all that it was cracked up to be. And, man, did that journey take a lot out of me. I was so prepared to just lay down and sleep for an eternity by the time we got there. After wandering around for a day or two, we found a nice, quaint little alley where we set up camp.

The head man of the family, John to his wife, Pa to his two children and Ass to everyone else who traveled with us, decided we would stay there for the night before heading up north.

Upon hearing the word "North" I had whinnied and neighed and just did the horse equivalent to totally freaking out. Even in my little horsey brain, I knew that "North" was the opposite of Santa Fe. And the only thing I wanted more than anything was to go back home to Santa Fe.

As the other members of the family settled in and began to practice their rodeo performances like twirling their lasso's and such, I hatched my plan. I was going to make my way back and that was that. All I had to do was wait for John to undo my harness so I could walk around for a little bit without the carriage acting like my second tail.

As it turned out, my plan worked even better than I ever hoped. Just as soon as John undid the harness and I was free to run, a young man, around seventeen or so, came running around the corner and barreling toward the cove where the family was perched. As we all pointedly ignored the music that was echoing through the streets, the boy ran forward and hopped on my back.

As he gently kicked my sides, I took off, leaving John's cries of "That's my horse!" in my dust. Once I was sure that I was far enough away from him and the others, I slowed down to a slow trot just in time to hear the mysterious rider, a boy wearing a red bandana and a black cowboy hat hanging down his back- no wait, now it's on his head- sing a haunting melody about a dream to go to Santa Fe.

I got all teary-eyed at the mention of my old hometown. I kept walking, slowly so that I wouldn't interfere with the Cowboy's singing, until I felt him pull gently on my reigns as a gesture for me to stop. I did, hesitantly, and let him climb off. As he slapped my behind, I began to run again. I was fully recharged and, with the words of his song set firmly in my mind, took off to find Santa Fe. I realize now that I went in the totally wrong direction for Santa Fe, but that's alright.

I must say, it sure is grand wandering around a city like New York late at night, especially if you are a horse. I walked around like I owned the place, pretending to be a horse for any neighboring carriage whenever someone shot me a questioning look. I liked freedom. I had only been by myself for an hour and I knew that I would never go back to my pull-cart days. That's why I needed to get to Santa Fe. There were so many horses there; no one would ever find me. It was the ideal situation for a renegade runaway horse like me.

But, alas, I never made it. Heck, I never made it out of New York. I wandered around aimlessly, looking for the dusty Santa Fe trail, until my hooves led me to something I've come to known as "the track". After listening to the humans discuss the benefits and highpoints of the horses that were inside, I could tell this was an important place for one to be a horse, so I hurried in, eager to see why we were such important creatures. I mean, I always knew that too be a horse was a noble thing, but I never met a human before that agreed with me. Before I had a chance to see what was going on inside, I was lassoed. My heart jumped in my throat. "John?" I thought at first. I didn't realize that other humans actually knew how to lasso as well as my rodeo owners.

But it wasn't John. It was the owner of 'the track'. Before you could say "Eh?" I was led into a stall and handed a carrot. I now had my own room, free food and no stupid harness; heck, I couldn't complain.

As I sat there, trying to figure out what had just happened to me, I heard a voice calling from the nearby stall.

"Psst. Hey you, newbie. You got a name?" It was Flash, the leading horse in the races. He was up to three-to-one odds up at the betting booth, a fact he boasted about the entire time I was boarded next to him.

"My name is Henry," I replied, always one to be friendly.

Flash snorted into his hay. "That name won't last long around here. The name is Flash and I'm the number one horse in these parts."

I ignored him, instead focusing my attention on the mare in the stall on my right side. "Hi there."

"Hi. My name is Marigold," she cooed with a swish of her honey-colored tail.

"Henry," I responded, bowing my head in a gesture of respect.

Eager as I was to get to know Marigold better, the owner man came back and took me out of the stall. He wanted to race me against one of the other horses to see if I was good enough to keep. Heck, even I know that a horse is only as good as how fast he runs or as hard as he works. I wasn't surprised.

I was surprised, and a little bit nervous, when the owner decided to race me against Flash. If Flash was as fast as he said he was then surely I would lose, right?

Well, let me tell you, it sure was satisfying to see the look on Flash's face when I beat him by three whole lengths.

Though it's only been a week since that race, Flash's odds have now jumped to ten-to-one odds, _thankyouverymuch_.

Marigold was extremely happy at Flash's defeat. It seems he had been pestering her to share the same stall as him. She was very impressed with my racing abilities and agreed to go on a date with me. It was her who gave me the name Rolling Thunder after all. We've been inseparable ever since and I'm happy to announce that Marigold and I will be expecting a colt this spring. I'm a quick worker, ain't I?

Anywho, I'm the number one horse down at Sheepshead Races, at least for now. You never know when a rodeo horse may be set free by a singing Cowboy and rescued by an owner of "the track". Heck, if it could happy to little ol' Henry, it could happen to anyone.

Well, that's my story. A little strange, a little awkward, heck even a little farfetched - but one hundred percent accurate, I guarantee you. Well, I've gotta be running now. It's the same thing every night; My fans all clamoring to get a glimpse of me, little old Henry from Santa Fe. I left New Mexico, one foot in the glue factory and look at me now, #7: Rolling Thunder. Thank you, strange and mysterious Cowboy. I hope you find your way to Santa Fe! Tell 'em Henry sent ya!

As #7: Rolling Thunder turns to leave the winner's circle and head back to his horsey girlfriend, two young men in the stands are staring down at the horse. As one, a short, angry Italian who almost lives at the track, rips up his ticket shouting how he was convinced that Rolling Thunder would never win six nights straight, the other stood puzzled. As he shook his Cowboy hat adorned head, he muttered more to himself than to his companion. "Now, where have I seen that horse before?"


End file.
